No country for old men.
When you’re my age, there’s little need for birthday parties; no need to wake the dead or startle everyone in the nursing home, what I’m saying.
I’ve instructed my two daughters: I’m too damn old and too damn tired for parties. Phone calls only, please.
Tena and Cassie understand: Their father is a grumpy old man.
I’m not disclosing the year or date of my celebrated birth; but, for the record, my birthday’s this week. We’ll leave it at that.
I will tell you that I’m on the high side of 70.
I quit counting when I thought I was 45 and my 2-year-old daughter reminded me I was 46.
Grumpy old men get grumpier as the years pile on. We forget more, talk less, swear more.
Our smiles look more like grimaces. We have every intention of exercising but can never find the time. We spend a lot of time experiencing wakefulness wishing we were asleep.
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